Twentieth century fresco (English)

Cuckoo-bird-castle-in-the-clouds–it’s been filling for three thousand years with garbage and ornaments, huge boxes full of it, their inscriptions: “I!” “Mine!” “Me!” “For me!” –its walls have been pushed out everywhere by “my treasure,” “my fever,” “my salvation,” at last it tipped over and fell into the dung collected underneath.

Its inhabitants jostle and bustle in the filth below, they don’t understand what has happened to them, they cannot see in the night, moaning they writhe on top of the trash-heap, or running around and treading on one another they drag their creaking, broken belongings, or they want to build something, pillaging the rubble.

But there is One among them who can see, and rolling in the tar he sets himself aflame so that the others, too, may see: desperation-light, live torch!

A few are pointing at him: “Behold the fool, he has dipped himself in tar and he’ll turn into ashes instead of trying to help us in our rescue work.” Others shout: “By his light we can see!” and they push and drag the broken trash even faster.

What could they see? What would the live torch show them? the rubble, the dung, and above it the black nothingness whence cuckoo-bird-castle-in-the-clouds is already gone with all the Angels having disappeared, the Angel of Security, the Angel of Freedom, the Angel of Justice, and the others, even the Angel of War (for what’s “war” for these is but an endless quarrel of those who bump into each other in the dark; where are the times when free decision would start a real war?) and gone is the Angel of Hatred as well (for everyone bites the ankle he can catch; but where is real “hatred” now?)

There’s but one left in the sky, the idle, indifferent soul, the Angel of Disgust. For it is only Disgust that has a soul left.

If they should see by the light of the Live Torch they would see him, the Angel of Disgust, as he dangles his legs for the dogs or pisses on the ruins while he whistles, and they would not believe that he is an Angel, that he is love, transformed, which would rather smile than be angry, and if they were to see him near at hand: they would not believe that he is the Angel of Disgust because of his beauty comparable only to the woman carried in the depths of our dreams, the murderer would get drunk if he saw him, sobbing with desire he would fall on his fists, taking vows and making promises, and even the pure would be astonished in front of him: what is beauty that its drift is so strong ?

And the screaming, flaming torch, and this final sweetness: Are one and the same.

If they ask the Angel, he answers: “Quit meddling!”—pouting, it says: “Don’t meddle.” And for the third time: “Don’t meddle!”—and falls silent.

The live torch dashes around and screams: “Have you heard it? Quit meddling! These two words are the Great Book, The Word flung into your faces, this short commandment is the one that would relieve the convulsions of the world! Quit meddling! Quit the flag-waving, stop waving agitatedly with constructive-destructive and rescuing motions, forget the slogans, officious principles and jerking ideologies tearing at you! Hear this: Desire no advantage, set no store by the value of advantage, and you’ll shed the hundreds of madnesses, all offering advantage, and you shall be like the heart-beat: its calm its function, and its function its calm…”

So shouts the live torch, then finally collapses, soot and flue-ashes pour forth from its mouth, even its bones are black.

And the Angel of Disgust plays on top of the ruins with equanimity. Waiting.